Epigram 31: A Loue-sicke Woer would a Sonnet write

A Loue-sicke Woer would a Sonnet write,
In praise of her that was his hearts delight:
Hoping thereby his wished loue to winne,
And to attaine it, thus he did begin.

Starre of the Earth, and Empresse of my Soule,
My Loue and Life, that doth my thoughts controule:
Sole Queene of my affections, and desire,
That like to Aetna sets my heart on fire.
Thy golden Lockes, resembling brightest Amber,
Most fit to grace some mighty Monarkes Chamber:
Thine eyes ecclipsing Titan in his rysing,
Thy Face surpassing Natures best deuising.
Thy Lips Euaporates most sweete perfumes,
Thy Voyce the Musicke of the Spheares assumes.
Perfection wounds more then Loues Shaft and Bowe,
Thy red the Rose doth shame, thy white the snowe,
Thou Worlds wonder, Natures dearest Iewell,
Staine not thy Vertues, with thy being cruell.
O thou that art my Soules adored Saint!
Be penetrable to my woes complaint.
Thus the poore Bull-finch spends the day in moanes,
The night he wasts in deepe heart-gnawing groanes,
For a most silthy vgly odious Whore,
On whome he spends his substance and his store.
Deuising millions of egregious lyes,
To raise his Punckes foule feature to the skyes.